Morituri te Salutant
by ForeverFalling86
Summary: The hay days of the Jaeger program may almost be over, but still they battle on. [Pacific Rim Fusion, One-Shot]


Just a one-shot that turned out a lot longer than I'd planned. I hope you enjoy it! Reviews are very much appreciated :)

* * *

The sky was only beginning to blossom with pink in the far east as the chopper touched down just outside the harbour, rippling the drifts of snow. Bruce shivered, hunkering down into the parka he'd been given on takeoff to try and escape the biting cold. Less than thirty hours ago he'd been walking the sweltering slums of New Delhi, spending his off hours from the university ducking down dirty alleys and climbing the winding steps of ramshackle buildings to find patients. There were still sweat stains on his shirt, and now he was back in San Francisco for the first time in years, freezing his ass off. Ever since the Kaiju blue had polluted the water, the clouds and sky had taken on a pearlescent blue and the temperatures had begun to plummet. If the destruction wasn't enough, entire ecosystems had died out.

"The Marshall will be waiting for you," the pilot shouted over the noise of the blades slicing through the air. "Just walk towards the Shatterdome.

The Shatterdome was a looming silhouette on the horizon, the rising sun not high enough to cast it into the light. Bruce hefted his bag over his shoulder, shouting his thanks to the pilot before he climbed out.

The snow was almost up to his knees, skirting the top of his boots.

"God, I miss India," he grumbled, shoving his hands into his pockets. The chopper's take off sent snow everywhere, down the neck his shirt, into his face and under his hood to chill the back of his neck. Bruce swore and tried to shake it out to no avail before he gave up and started walking, minding his step.

The harbour was in shambles, the benches where people had once sat to watch the water lay in broken pieces, the ground pocked with potholes and rubble. The snow managed to somewhat mask the damage, making it eerily reminiscent of pre-war San Fransciso, but the silence was so new, so strange, that you could never confuse the two. San Fransciso had always been a sea of sound. A jungle of hot rolling concrete and blaring car horns. Now, the surrounding city blocks were mostly abandoned. The once expensive ocean front properties were left to sit empty. Only the poor who had nowhere else to go and had slipped away from the evacuation crews remained, hiding in washed out buildings, and peeking out of the smashed in windows.

The streets were empty, but footprints were pressed into the snow, made from tiny boots belonging to tiny feet, marking where a few children had snuck out to the shore, probably on a dare. The kids were fond of pushing the limits, some coming back with stories of monsters and mechs, and some not coming back at all. They swept away in the tidal waves that pelted the area as the Kaiju rose from the rift. That was what the news anchors never talked about. They'd go on and on about the Rangers, parade them about on the late night circuit, and throw around the sensationalist names they gave the Jaegers and the Kaiju, about the safety of the inland safe zones. But they never bothered to talk about the ones left behind, the people swallowed up by the raging ocean. 'Quelling panic' was what they called it. Crowd control was what it really was. Something to keep them complacent, to prevent rioting and general upheaval.

One of the hangar doors of the Shatterdome opened as he drew nearer, a black man waiting for him just inside. He cut an impressive figure with his eye patch and broad shoulders. He exuded authority- military- in the line of his stance, in the distance between his feet as he stood in parade rest.

"Hello, Dr. Banner," the man yelled over the howling wind. "We've been expecting you."

Bruce nodded as he pulled back his hood and shook the snow from his coat. "Are you the Marshall?" he called as he wiped the fog from his glasses. The man nodded, his leather jacket flapping in the wind as the door behind them began to close.

"Marshall Nick Fury," he said once the door was secure, holding out his hand. Bruce quickly rubbed his own together, trying to get some warmth back into his fingers, before he extended his hand.

"It's quite the place you've got here," he said conversationally, looking around the hangar so that he could resist the urge to stare at the thick black scars protruding from behind the man's eye patch.

"They call it the Shield," Fury told him, gesturing for Bruce to follow him as he took off towards the back of the hangar. "I'll give you the nickel tour and then I'll have someone show you to your quarters so you can try and beat the jetlag before it sets in."

"I'd appreciate it," Bruce nodded, unzipping his coat in the relative warmth of the dome.

Everything was a hub of activity around them despite the early hour. People were running left and right, preparing for the next attack. Machines were humming in the background, drills, and air compressors going nonstop, accented by the beeping of various alarms on the equipment. Fury led him out of the hangar and down a wide hall. Everything was metal, the floors, the walls, the doors. Directional arrows were either painted or bolted onto the walls, the floors adorned with the winged bird that made up the PPDC emblem.

"I'll show you the main hangar first," Fury said as Bruce struggled to keep up in his stiff boots and thick pants. The halls echoed with their footsteps as they set a brisk pace, personnel saluting and darting out of Fury's way as they passed.

"We've got about a six hundred people working non-stop," he said. "The Jaegers rarely come back undamaged, so repairs are always ongoing."

"Hey, sir! Who've you got there?"

Fury trailed to a stop, but seemed reluctant to do so as he looked to the ceiling as if praying for patience or to be put out of his misery. Bruce craned his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of the person who'd yelled. A young blond man jogged up from a staircase that led down to the mess if the smell was anything to go by. His hair was sticking out every which way, making it obvious he'd recently gotten out of bed, if his pajama pants weren't a give away.

"What do you want, Barton?" Fury asked flatly, sounding like he couldn't care less. "I'm a little busy here if you couldn't tell."

"What, a guy can't say hello to his favourite superior officer?" Barton asked, clutching his heart and making a show of looking hurt.

"Clint, I don't have time for your shit right now. Go bug your husband or make yourself useful and help with repairs," Fury growled, poking Barton sharply in the chest.

"Sir, it's not even seven," the other man drawled. "I know you and Phil like to get up at ass-crack o'clock, but the only reason I'm up is for my good morning kiss, and even that's only temporary. I'm going the fuck back to bed.

Fury sighed as he rolled his eye. "How's he doing today?"

The cocky air slipped a bit, Barton seeming to collapse in on himself as he shrugged. He seemed small and lost, even with all the muscle that filled out his chest and arms. He looked _young _or maybe he just looked his age. The war had aged a lot of people; put more years on them than they should rightfully have.

"He's doing okay. It's a good day," the he said, smiling sadly.

"Good to hear it," the Marshall nodded. "Doctor Banner, meet Clint Barton. One of our Rangers. Barton, this is our new head scientist and Chief Technology Officer. He's going to be running lead now that Danvers is out in Alaska."

"Good to meet ya', Doc. We've been missing our Chief Tech. Tony's been moonlighting and he's annoying as fuck over the comms. He also may or may not gone a little power mad," Clint told him conspiratorially as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants.

"I uh, well, I don't really specialize in tech— I'm a nuclear physicist. But, I'm going to try my best," Bruce assured him when Clint started to look uneasy.

"All we can ask, I guess," the blond said slowly, his face still slightly pinched. "I'm…I'm sure Tony will help you get your footing."

"Relax," Fury said, looking up from the cell phone he'd pulled out while they'd been talking. "Banner's a smart man. Smarter than you- and we put you in a damn Jaeger."

Clint scrunched his nose up, looking like he was about to argue when his own phone rang.

"Shit," he said, yanking it from his pocket to glance at the screen. "That's Nat. I've gotta go. Good luck, man. I mean it!" he yelled to Bruce as he jogged away.

"He's flighty," Fury mused, staring after the younger man as he disappeared into the swarms of people darting through the halls. "But he's a good pilot. And a good guy. He's had a tough time of things, but you wouldn't know it. Anyway," he said, pulling himself from his thoughts. "Let's get this damn tour over with so we can get on with our lives."

The end of the hallway opened up into one of the larger Jaeger bay's Bruce had seen. It was cavernous, really, about the size of a medium sized mall and with ceilings almost as high as the dome in St. Peter's. It had to be, given the colossal scale of its residents.

"How many jaegers have you got here?" Bruce asked, the sections and huge machines not letting him get a clear line of sight through.

"We've currently got three machines, but a fourth will be arriving within the next few weeks. We've got some of the best around if I do say so myself."

Given that generally Jaegers were kept in groups of two or three, the abnormal size of the hangar made sense. Bruce grinned over at Fury as they marched into the melee of vehicles, machines, and crew.

"I have a feeling the Marshall down up in Anchorage would say the same thing of his own Jaegers."

Fury laughed, the sound of it rich and deep- the kind of laugh that was pleasant to the ears- the laugh of a man who'd once done it often. "You wouldn't be wrong, Doctor."

"How'd you manage to get four?" He asked as Fury led him deeper and deeper into the hangar. From amongst the chaos Bruce could pick out a large Jaeger- one of the bigger he'd seen, its black paint shielding it from the eye.

"The Norwegians have recently started shifting to mark fours, gearing up to make an attempt at mark fives. They've been so kind as to send the mark three Týr Delta."

"Ear?"

"Týr," Fury repeated, pronouncing the name crisply, as though he'd been practicing. "Norse God of who the fuck knows what. Piloted by Thor and Loki Odinson- and before you say it, I know. Their parents clearly had a theme going. From the sounds of it, they were chosen on the basis that the brothers are...difficult. But at this point, I'm not going to look a gift horse in the mouth."

Bruce looked at him curiously, wondering just who the hell he'd be working with. Rangers could be cocky hot shots when they wanted to be, it came with the territory. The world hailed them as heroes and the military called them their golden boys and their greatest achievements. People didn't often take that kind of praise without it eventually going to their heads. Rangers in general could be 'difficult', so to be singled out...

"Difficult how?"

"They're Drift compatible, but tend to misalign more than other pilots. On a good day, they're unstoppable, on a bad, they can't even make it out of the hangar. There's already been an attempted strangling, but the crew pulled Loki off just as Thor lost consciousness. They also just so happen to be local heroes back there, so the military doesn't want the bad press that'd go along with a discharge."

"They couldn't have just retired?"

"They could've," Fury conceded as he came to a halt. "But they didn't want to. Something about bringing honour to their ancestors."

Bruce set down his bag, staring up in awe at the Jaeger in front of him. He'd seen them in bits and pieces, helped build the nuclear reactors that powered some of them, but to see a fully operational one up close and personal was another thing entirely. It was amazing really. And terrible, that they'd had to create these monsters of modern mechanics and technology that had once seemed so bright and pure. Once upon a time neural bridges were supposed to be the future of medical tech for coma and trauma patients. Now, they were using it in giant mechs to kill equally giant monsters.

A lot of people had liked to predict the end of the world- stuff from Revelations, Y2K, the Mayan calendar, all that junk. Bruce didn't think anyone had ever thought of monsters pouring out of a dimensional rift in the Pacific Ocean. At some point, the world had turned into something out of a children's cartoon, but he wasn't sure it was going to end like one.

"This here is our Russian beauty," Fury said, waving to the scarred Jaeger. "Her name's Yaga More."

It was obviously an older model, with weathered and scratched paint, but it looked sturdy. Strong.

"As in Baba Yaga?" Bruce asked as he went to get a closer look at the iron giant in front of him. Crew were repairing a gyroscope in the shoulder, sparks from the welders raining down like falling stars and vanishing just as quickly.

"Got it in one," Fury answered, his voice almost drowned out in the noise. "The Russians called her Baba, but we've gone with Yaga."

The machine was bigger than most Bruce had seen, thicker, less lithe and graceful looking than the newer models tended to be.

"She might look slow," Fury piped up, either reading the look on Bruce's face or used to the criticism. "But she's one of the fastest around. Mark one, the oldest we've got."

"The Russians know how to make things last."

"They know a thing about enduring. Originally piloted by Natasha Romanova and Yelena Belova. They were stationed up in Siberia for two years until Belova died of an aneurysm- mark ones put a lot of physical strain on the pilots."

"That's why they're generally decommissioned. Well, that and the radiation," Bruce pointed out, eyeing the bright white two headed eagle embossed onto the Jaeger's chest plate. "The mark twos and threes don't require as much exertion on the part of the pilots to move."

"Tell that to the Russians. They tend to like the old way of doing things. They went in and dealt with the radiation leaks, and Romanov hasn't had any health problems yet, which is a damn miracle. I know a lot of guys who are slowly rotting from the inside of cancer or radiation positioning."

The military liked to claim that no one had thought of the possible effects that the radiation would have on the pilots. Bruce, having written and read his fair share of reports on the subject, knew that it wasn't true. They'd known what would happen. Everyone who'd had a hand in designing the Jaegers had understood what they were doing and what it meant for the soldiers they were going to put in them. But in the face of extinction, a few sacrifices had been made.

"We've got Barton co-piloting with her now," Fury told him as he grabbed Bruce's bag and shoved it into the arms of one of the passing soldiers. "Get this to Banner's room for him."

The woman nodded and took off, weaving her way through the organized chaos.

"Next up," the Marshall said, continuing deeper into the hangar. "Is Ulysses Harbinger, the only American machine we've got. Piloted by—

"Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers," Bruce finished. "I've seen them on the news. From Brooklyn. Grew up together."

They were popular on TV and in the magazines. Two good looking guys whom just so happened to be homegrown heroes. Everyone knew their story; born barely a handful of months apart, their families had lived in the same apartment building so they had known each other since they were in diapers. Went to school together, enlisted and served in the army together, and then became Rangers together. Where one went, the other followed. They'd spent their entire lives facing down everything that life threw at them side by side.

They were iconic for the East Coast, as was Ulysses. The Jaeger had been built out of the metal from the warships docked in the New York harbour, each rivet and wire installed with careful New Yorker hands. They may have been on the opposite side of the country, but when New York had been threatened in the past, the country had rallied. They'd just been paying their dues.

Bruce had seen the stats, heard Barnes and Rogers give the talk show hosts a quick rundown of the machine enough times to know that Ulysses was special. It was meant to symbolize the struggle to defeat the Kaiju and defend the lives of all the innocent civilians, and thus carried not only the standard issue sword or gun, but also a shield. It was the only one of its kind in service. Truly unique unto itself. With foot spikes installed on both sides, Ulysses could be an immovable barrier between the Kaiju and the cities. With the shield raised and feet locked in, the Jaeger could stonewall a level three easily while allowing the other Jaegers deployed to attack, or it could use its plasma canon to do the job.

"It's wonderful," Bruce said, taking in the faded red, white, and blue paint job that had once seemed so bright in the footage on CNN. "Very patriotic."

"It was supposed to be for propaganda," Fury admitted, crossing his arms. "It was originally blue, grey, and black, but they repainted the accents and crests to give it a more 'American' feel. Idiotic if you ask me, but no one ever said the PR department was smart."

The next Jaeger was the smallest of the three, a matte red finish with accents of white, and another colour so dark Bruce couldn't quite figure out what it was. This one had the typical plasma canon, but even when it wasn't operating there was an eerie blue glow to it that he'd never seen before.

This corner of the hangar was quieter- no crew was bustling about doing repairs or alterations. It seemed to be in perfect condition, the matte paint clear of any scratches or dents.

"That there is Titan Acolyte. One of the three mark threes produced by the Italians. Although, with all the tinkering Stark's done with it, it's not exactly in line with their other jaegers. He's the one who designed Ulysses' shield."

"Antonio Stark?" Bruce asked, eyes alight. "He's stationed here?"

"He was recruited to the tech department five years ago," Fury nodded. "His father wanted them out of Italy after uprisings and needed to be closer to Stark Industries. Tony's one of the best engineers we've got and also one of the biggest pains in the ass you'll ever meet."

Tony Stark had been one of the most famous men in Europe, pre-war, and was definitely still influential given his intelligence and wealth. His face had been on the covers of magazines before the Jaeger program had rocketed him to international renown outside of the pages of science journals and gossip magazines. He'd been in the Top 20 under 20 since he was six and easily transitioned to the Top 30 under 30.

"I've heard he's a bit of a character."

"That's putting it mildly. His co-pilot is Virginia 'Pepper' Potts. The woman has the patience of a saint and a right hook that could knock you flat on your ass and she's not afraid to use it when pushed," Fury warned him.

"I'll make sure to keep that in mind," he said, still thinking of finally getting the chance to talk one and one with Antonio Stark. He was a 'character' but he was also one of the few men in the world that Bruce truly admired.

"Make sure that you do. I couldn't track Stark down if it was my job, but he's almost always in the Command Centre in the mornings working on something. If you head up there tomorrow, you'll find him."

"I'll do that," Bruce nodded.

"Well, if you haven't got any questions, I have things to do."

With that Fury cleared out, his coat billowing behind him like he'd walked straight out of an action movie. Bruce was left standing alone at the feet of Titan Acolyte, awash in the steady blue glow emanating from the centre of its chest. Compared to the others, it may have been small, but from his place on the ground, it looked colossal.

He sighed, so damn tired. He turned around, suddenly faced with an endless maze of workers, equipment, and the knowledge that Fury had forgotten to show him where his room was.

* * *

"Tony, come on."

The alarm was going off in the background, the beeping echoing off the metal walls of the room. Tony rolled over, shoving his face deep into his pillow.

"Time's it?"

"Oh-seven hundred."

The blankets were pulled from his body and his pillow was snatched away, leaving Tony lying on his bare bed.

"Merda," he cursed, rubbing his eyes. "It's too early for this."

"You're the one who wanted to get down there and rewire that relay."

"I meant at an appropriate time," he whined as he shivered in his t-shit and sweats. "Like two in the afternoon."

"Well, you're awake now, so up you get. Besides, we're supposed to meet Bucky in the mess and I'm sure Pepper is going to want back in here eventually."

"Her clothes are all in Happy's room already," Tony said dismissively, blindly fishing on the floor for his blanket. "Just bring me back some coffee. That's all I want."

Steve sighed as he sat down on the bottom bunk to pull on his boots. "You've got to have more than that."

"Then grab me a bun or something. All of you are insane, eating such a heavy meal first thing. That's a quick way to screw up your stomach for the day."

"Hm," Steve hummed as he laced up. "Well, not all of us can live off of coffee."

"And it's a shame."

"Yes, we are indeed, quite an unfortunate bunch."

Tony finally cracked open his eyes to stare up at the other man. "You're killing me here, Steve. This whole talking back thing is cute, don't get me wrong, but—

Steve cut him off with a kiss, long passed the stage where they didn't kiss until after they'd brushed their teeth. The blond pulled away first and went over to the sink in the corner.

"I'd like it if you'd come down with me."

"Plying me with kisses will get you everywhere," Tony sighed as he sat up, trying to work up the courage to set his bare feet on the metal floor.

Steve gave him a fond look as he kicked over the pair of boots that'd been laying haphazardly by the door. Tony crawled out of bed, pulling the boots onto his bare feet and taking the leather flight jacket that was handed to him. The weather had taken a cold turn, chilling the cold metal halls of their Shatterdome. Those who'd come from the north thought nothing of it, but any of the service members from warmer climates were perpetually cold.

Which meant Tony was freezing his balls off, still too used to Tuscany's heat. Even after serving in San Francisco for five years, he hadn't quite adjusted to the climate and doubted he ever would. At night, when he closed his eyes, he could still feel the warmth of the sun on his skin; smell the olive trees in bloom. He hadn't been back since his father had moved them to America and as each month passed, the feeling in the pit of his stomach grew like a cancer. The feeling- the knowledge- that he'd never again stand beneath the twisting bark of an olive tree. It sat heavily inside him, gave weight to every move, to every word- a sense of finality and regret.

The door to the room swung open, the clanking of boots alerting him to Steve's departure. Tony hesitated for a moment, before he made up his wind. He'd never been one for regrets, so why would he start now?

"Steve, wait!"

The blond stopped just outside the door, his own flight jacket hanging off his one arm. Steve smiled gently, finishing shucking on his coat before he slipped back into the room, tugging the door mostly closed behind him.

"We're going to be late," the man whispered, pulling Tony to him.

"Barnes can wait," he told him, leaning into Steve's chest, listening to the steady drum of his heart. "Ti amo."

"I love you too."

Regrets were for the old, anyway.

* * *

The mess was crowded despite the early hour, filled with crew and officers hunched over their plates and clutching their coffee cups like lifelines. Bucky was slumped over at their regular table, looking to be asleep in his waffles and in danger of aspirating maple syrup.

Tony took a seat, trusting Steve to get him coffee. He poked Bucky sharply in the cheek, eliciting a snort as he sat up, looking dazed. "Long night, Barnes?"

Bucky blinked for a moment, his brain apparently taking the time to boot back up. "I could ask you the same. Steve never came back last night," Bucky finally said, wiping some syrup from his cheek.

Tony just smiled and reached out to steal a sip of the coffee that was precariously close to the edge of the table. Bucky made sound of protest in the back of his throat, but was otherwise too occupied unmatting the hair on the side of his head that had congealed.

"I wonder if Natasha looks as tired as you do."

The other man shot him a glare as he went back to his breakfast.

"Americans," Tony drawled loosely, wiggling his eyebrows. "So shy about your love lives. Both you and Steve, blushing all over the place. Be more outgoing, Barnes. Learn to strut."

"I can strut, Stark."

"In all the wrong ways," Tony grinned smoothly, as Clint slumped down onto the bench beside him.

"I'm dying," the blond groaned, laying his head on his arms. "It's too early to be up."

"It's almost eight," Bucky pointed, picking at his food.

"Don't think I don't see that face print in your plate, waffle boy," Clint shot back.

There was a clatter of porcelain as Steve attempted to balance two cups of coffee and three plates in his hands.

"Thank God," Clint muttered as he snatched the mugs, handing one off to Tony and clutching the other to his chest.

"Good morning," Steve greeted as he took a seat beside Bucky. They leaned into each other for a moment, brushing shoulders before pulling apart again.

"Nothing good about it," Clint grumbled, snatching an apple off the other blond's plate.

"You sure seem pleasant today," Steve sighed as he went about buttering his toast. "Phil having a bad day?"

Clint grimaced, setting down the apple with sudden disinterest. "He wasn't feeling great after dinner, so I stayed the night. Ended up having to practically carry him down to Medical at three."

Bucky cursed under his breath, shoving aside his plate. His waffles were too far gone anyway. "I don't get why he won't let you stay with him. What if you hadn't been there to help him?"

"He just..." Clint trailed off, looking tired. There were circles under his eyes so dark that they looked like day old bruises, the rest of his face pale and gaunt. When Tony had first met him, Clint had been bright. He'd been pure energy and charisma. It had only been in the past year that he'd lost it; it'd been beaten out of him by late nights spent worrying and weeks of stressful waiting in Medical.

"Look, I like Phil, I do. But you've been married for how long and you don't even live together? He won't Drift with you in the sims, he's barely around, I just don't get it," Bucky said, throwing up his hands.

"You don't have to _get _it," Clint snapped, standing up and almost upsetting his coffee. "_I _get it. And that's all that fucking matters, asshole."

"Great job," Tony said before he sipped his coffee, watching Clint storm off. "Really, bravo. That was, what, fifty-eight seconds of interaction? That may be a new record for you."

"Jesus, Bucky," Steve said, glaring at his best friend. "Did you really need to do that?"

"_Someone _needed to say it."

"Well, that someone wasn't you. What's Natasha going to say?"

The brunet winced.

"Yeah, think on that for awhile, Buck. Your balls are going to be in a vice."

"Shit."

"Uh-huh."

"Fuck."

"Pretty much," Steve agreed, biting into his toast.

"Well, with that lovely picture in mind, I'm going to head up to Command and finish that relay," Tony said, standing with his and Clint's forgotten coffee in his hands.

"Have a good day," Steve said, smiling gently.

"You too."

"Oh gag me," Bucky huffed, pretending to vomit.

"With the way you've been running your mouth, I just might," Steve snapped, poking him sharply in the chest.

"OW. _Jesus_, Steve. Watch it!"

Tony rolled his eyes as they started digging into one another, everyone else ignoring them as they went about their business. He made his way to Command, finishing off Clint's mug and setting it down in the corner of a random hallway before he started on his own. Bucky may have been as ass about things, but he wasn't wrong. No one really talked about Phil and Clint's relationship, but that didn't stop them from _talking_. The consensus was that Phil Coulson was a stubborn, prideful, jerk, and that Clint Barton was also a stubborn jerk, but still too good for him.

But Tony got it. The other Rangers tended to stay clear of the Command Centre- either deployed or down in the hangars with the other officers watching on the feeds. But he bet that if any of them ever bothered to go up there before or during a sortie, they'd know too. See what was really happening.

Tony had watched a lot of romances play out in his days, even participated in some, but he'd never felt or seen anything like Clint and Phil, and he doubted he'd come across anything like them again. There was something so fundamental there. The two of them could be one without a neural bridge, could look into each other's eyes and _know_. They were like a law of the universe- a fact so deeply engrained into themselves that it was impossible for them to exist otherwise. It was as beautiful as it was horrific- like watching a bomb detonate.

Tony was knocked out of his thoughts as he full on collided with someone who'd been standing in the doorway to Command. The coffee he'd been carrying clattered to the floor and he watched the mug roll away forlornly.

"Damn, I'm so sorry," whoever it was said.

"No use crying over spilt coffee," Tony said sagely as he sidestepped the puddle, looking up to get a good look at the guy.

"Can't say this is how I wanted to meet you today." the man said, smiling shyly as he plucked off his glasses to nervously wipe them on his shirt.

"Oh, you're the new head scientist and Chief Technology Officer," Tony said, everything clicking into place as he pushed through the doors, gesturing for the guy to follow.

"Yes, I'm Bruce Banner."

Bruce followed after him hesitantly, not sure what to expect.

"Danvers took off two months ago, so I've been filling in until they could find someone. Been grounded since then and I'm about to go-

Tony suddenly stopped short, almost tripping over a randomly placed chair in his haste to turn around. "Bruce _Banner_?"

"Uh, yes?"

"As in the Bruce Banner who helped to design the nuclear reactor core of the mark threes?"

Bruce shrugged, resisting the urge to play with his glasses again. His mother had always nagged him about it, saying it wore out the hinges more quickly. "Yeah."

"I've read a lot of your work," Tony smiled, excited to meet someone of a like mind. "I have to say, your papers on the side effects of prolonged piloting were... eye opening. Freaked me the fuck out, but eye opening none the less."

"Uh, thanks, I think. I've read your work too. I actually heard you speak at a conference in Paris on the Arc Reactor technology you'd been developing. It was... amazing," Bruce gushed, unable to stop himself in the face of genius.

"Clean, unlimited energy," Tony nodded as he pushed the chair away and started pulling wires from the consol as the computer booted up.

"You were going to power an entire city with just one reactor," Bruce recalled, trying to ignore how old the memories felt, how much had happened since then. "You'd already tried it on a Stark building and were going to expand within the next three years."

"That was the plan," Tony grinned, fiddling with a wire that had been misconnected, the end warped slightly. "I was going to get Stark Industries into the energy business and change the world. But, you know what else an Arc Reactor can do? It can power one hell of a Jaeger."

Bruce's smile fell as he remembered the blue glow coming out of Titan Acolyte. "Yeah, I guess it can."

"I wanted to get _out _of the weapons business," Tony laughed as he typed something into the keyboard. "And look at me now. Science, you know," he said wistfully. "It's beautiful. But the application…Thought I was saving the world through an unlimited source of energy. Turns out, I'm saving it by powering an anti-monster machine. Weird world, Bruce. A very weird world."

"Well, there's always after," Bruce suggested weakly. Tony looked up from the wire that was still clutched tightly in his fingers.

"...After," he nodded; the word playing across his tongue like it was a concept he didn't quite understand. "Anyway, enough of this depressing shit," he said, giving himself a bit of a shake. "I've got to give you a crash course in running this circus."

Bruce could acknowledge that the system was rather complicated, a mix of long functions to know and endless wires that needed to be connected just so, or something may just short out and explode.

("It was pretty cool," Tony admitted. "But if you like your eyebrows, you might want to avoid that.")

However, between his own experience and Tony's guidance, he was confident that he could operate the systems just fine on his own. And if not, there was a manual that had been propping open a door down in the boiler room that he could consult.

"I've never actually used this thing. Who even wrote it," Tony muttered, flipping through the pages of the index. "It's completely useless. I'll bring it back down to the boiler room," he said decidedly, as he tossed it aside. "At least they get some use out of this brick. Look, you have any questions? Just ask me. Hell, or Fury. He's not _completely_ useless. You're not going to have time to flip through the table of contents or the index, so just ask for help if you need it for now, and memorize it in your spare time. It's easier to just know it, believe me," he explained, as if memorizing a six hundred-page manual was common practice. And for him it probably was. They didn't call Tony Stark a genius for nothing.

"Banner," a voice called from behind them.

"Speak of the devil and he shall appear," Tony said, leaning back against the table.

Bruce turned to see the Marshall striding up with another man in tow. Unlike the Marshall, the balding man was in a neatly pressed military uniform, looking official and intimidating despite the way the white shirt hung off his body. The many ribbon bars on his chest and the rigid line of his shoulders painted a long history in the service.

"This is Brigadier Phil Coulson," Fury said.

"Oh, Clint's husband," Bruce remembered, rising to shake his hand. It was hard to picture Clint with such a stoic man, when the blond seemed to have such a penchant for sarcasm.

"Ah," Coulson said, a small smile playing across his face and breaking the serious façade. What had appeared to be frown lines were in fact laugh lines, Bruce noticed.

"You've had the pleasure of meeting my other half. He didn't make an ass of himself did he?"

"No more than usual," Fury told him, clapping the other officer on the shoulder.

Coulson's hand was cold, but his smile was bright enough that Bruce could see the shadow of a once vibrant man; the man Clint had probably fallen in love with.

"I've read your work. I assign it as required reading for all of the pilots just coming out of the academy," Coulson said as he disengaged from Bruce's grip and took a respectable step back.

Bruce wasn't sure what to say to that, so he nodded before looking back to Tony who was too busy staring at Coulson to notice his own desperate stare.

"You're looking better," the Italian pointed out, slipping away from the table to saunter over to where Phil was standing. "Clint was worried."

"He's always worried," the other man admitted, any traces of the smile gone from his face.

"For good reason."

"Alright right, Stark," Fury butt in. "That's enough. How's the orientation going?"

"It's, ah, it's going well. I think I should manage," Bruce told him.

"Good. It's been almost two and a half weeks since the last occurrence, which means the next one could happen at any time. I need you ready."

When the Rift had first appeared, the incidents of Kaiju making land and attacking had occurred maybe once a year. There'd been time to rebuild, to bury the dead and drag themselves up out of the rubble and regroup. But as time had gone on, the intervals between attacks had slowly grown smaller. Even away from the front in the inland safe zones it was clear that they were being pummeled; that soon the power of the Jaegers- their greatest achievement, their last hope- wouldn't be enough anymore. There were already calls for the program to be retired- it was too expensive, drained too many resources- but no one had any alternative ideas other than to what then? What would stop the Kaiju from making their way into the safe zones? Bruce wasn't a military tactician, but he didn't see any other option available to them that wouldn't end in even more people dying.

People liked to think that when the world began to fall apart, everyone pulled together. And that was true, to a point, but when they were on the cusp of extinction, only a certain few would rise above the destruction. And Bruce had no illusions that he'd be one of them. The rich and the influential would survive while the rest of them would be left to die like rats in the streets. Such was the way of the world.

"This Danvers' replacement?"

Bruce looked up to find a rather intimidating looking woman walking up to Coulson, wrapped in a similar uniform. Where Coulson was deceptively stern, Bruce got the feeling that this woman really was as stoic as she looked.

Coulson nodded, "Doctor Banner, this is Colonel Maria Hill, second in command here."

"Welcome aboard," she said, coming over to shake his hand.

"Thanks."

"Be warned," Tony hissed under his breath. "She will eat your still beating heart right out of your chest."

"I heard that," Hill called.

"Doesn't make it any less true," Tony said sweetly, but Bruce could see how he was tensing his body, as if expecting some kind of blow in retaliation.

"Lay off, Stark," Fury said warningly. "Maria, let the idiot survive another day. Unfortunately, we need him."

Hill rolled her eyes, but agreed none the less.

"I'm secretly his favourite," Tony whispered to Bruce conspiratorially.

"Actually, that'd be Rogers," Coulson piped up, earning a laugh from the surrounding personnel and even Fury.

"Well I'm Steve's favourite," Tony grumbled.

"That may have something to do with the fact that you're fucking him," a man said from his place in front of one of the adjacent computers.

"Shut your whore mouth, Pym! No one cares what you think!"

"Hey," Pym protested, getting up from his seat.

Whatever altercation that was about to occur was stopped by a quiet high pitched beep that came from the computer Tony was seated at. The sound was quickly followed up by a louder, deeper, all together more serious beep from across the room.

"Way to jinx us, _Pym_," Tony growled as he squinted down to get a look at one of the many screens, muttering under his breath in Italian as he looked at the readouts before he spun around in his chair to face the room at large. With a dramatic flair, he raised his arms, looking like some sort of demented preacher as he said, "Gentlepeople and Pym, we've got ourselves a category four."

The sirens blared to life over the PA system, the sound of the claxons echoing off the metal walls. Outside the Command Centre, people were running through the halls, all trying to get to where they belonged.

"_Four_?"

Fury shoved Stark aside to get a look, sending the man and his chair rolling across the room. "Jesus. Someone call down to HQ and report this," he shouted to the techs bustling about the room, no one seeming to hear him.

"Tony!" A red headed woman was waiting the door, her flight jacket hanging off her shoulders. "Get your ass in gear!"

Tony clambered out of his chair, looking unsure as he glanced at Bruce. "I don't know—

"Stark, get down there, you're deploying first!" Fury yelled.

Tony nodded, sparing Bruce a supportive wink before he took off running.

"I've got to get down to Communications and call this in on the secure line," Fury growled, disappearing after him.

Hill started shouting commands left and right, grabbing some of the slower people and shoving them in the right direction. The room was an experiment in controlled chaos, techs calling out tests over the comms and checking all the vital equipment while the alarms kept blaring.

"Trial by fire, Doctor," Coulson said calmly, standing out of the way as more people came running in. "Tell me what you see."

Bruce tried to breathe deeply to calm his nerves as he took his seat, eyeing the radar. "Well, it looks to be about three kilometers out."

"Good. How fast is it approaching?"

"It should make land in…about thirty minutes."

"Alright," Coulson nodded. "If you look to the screen on your far left, we've got satellite coming through."

"Oh shit, that's one ugly bastard," Clint laughed as he walked through the door, already decked out in his Drivesuit and carrying his helmet under his arm.

"Cutting it close, Barton," Maria warned.

The blond shrugged, making his way to his husband's side. "We're deploying last and Stark and Pepper aren't even in the Conn-Pod yet because Steve's in there with them. I've got plenty of time."

"Where's Natasha?" Coulson asked, not looking away from the satellite feed.

"With Barnes, sucking his face. The category four has everyone pretty spooked; worried this might be it, you know?"

Phil nodded, taking Clint's hand in his and intertwining their fingers carefully. "It was the same with the first category three. You'll be fine."

Clint sighed, dropping his helmet by his feet and turning to press himself against the other man. "I know."

Phil wrapped his arms around him, pulling his close until there was no room between them. Bruce watched Clint press their foreheads together as they breathed in tandem, ignoring the whirlwind of activity still going on around them.

"Clint-

"I know."

"But—

"It's okay," the man smiled faintly, his blue eyes twinkling. "I love you."

"I love you too," Phil whispered, his voice heavy with unspoken promises and regret. With one last kiss and a wave, Clint was gone as quickly as he'd arrived, Phil staring after him with a look of longing. Bruce couldn't help but wonder if he'd just witnessed a goodbye, and the thought left his chest aching for them. For two people so in love that they acted as though they were two pilots in the Drift- knowing one another, understanding.

The computer put up the alert that Titan was ready, the Conn-Pod set to go.

"Alright," he called, adjusting his headset and flipping on the holoscreens as everyone settled into their places. He swallowed down his nerves and got to work."Titan, can you hear me?"

"Loud and clear," Tony answered. "Pepper and I are ready."

"Copy," Bruce said. "We're just waiting on the Marshall and then we'll be good to go."

"So how you feeling, Brucie?" Tony asked. "Think you're ready?"

"Well, we're about to find out."

"Don't fuck up!"

"Tony," Pepper snapped. "Leave the man alone. He's going to be stressed enough without you trying to rile him up. You'll be fine, Bruce!"

Tony grumbled, but remained silent.

"Marshall on deck," Maria called, the crew all going to rise but Fury waved them back down.

"Are they ready to drop?"

"Yes, sir," Bruce told him.

"Good," he said, grabbing one of the mics. "Stark, I don't want any of your normal dicking around, do you hear me?"

"Don't worry, Nick," Pepper assured him, her voice light, but serious none the less. "I'll make sure he behaves."

"You all suck," Tony yelled, but Bruce could hear the laughter in his voice. "Release the goddamn drop!"

"Alright," Bruce grinned. "Titan Acolyte, releasing the drop."

Tony hooted as they were released, obviously enjoying himself.

"Coupling confirmed."

"Engage pilot to pilot protocol."

Bruce flipped the switch, easily remembering everything Tony had told him. "Engaging now. Hangar doors are open and ready to go."

"Then prepare for Neural Handshake."

Tony and Pepper confirmed the order as Bruce started counting down. "Initiating in ten, nine, eight, seven…"

He could hear Tony and Pepper bickering back and forth, the words seeming worn in and practiced in a way that told him that they did this every time. Fury was a pillar on his right, Maria Hill not far behind, while Coulson had taken up a position on his left, looking pale in the glow of the holograms. "Three, two, one."

The stats came to life on the displays, the neural handshake looking strong and holding well as Tony and Pepper calibrated the hemispheres.

"We're good to go," Bruce announced, feeling relieved.

"Are Barnes and Rogers in the Conn-Podd?"

"They're ready at your say, Marshall," Pym called as he switched over Ulysses' controls to Bruce's computer.

"You the new guy?" a voice called through the comm.

"Uh, yes?"

"You don't sound confident," the voice taunted him.

"Bucky," another voice, that had to belong to Rogers, said warningly. "Don't you think you've run your mouth enough today?"

"You're just protective because Tony likes him."

"I'm not protective, it's called being a decent human being."

"For the love of God," Fury sighed. "Just drop the bastards."

Bruce did as he was told and tried not to laugh at the startled yelps that came over the comms.

"…You're okay, man," Barnes said after a moment.

Bruce ignored him and started up the pilot to pilot protocol, wondering what the hell his life was going to like now. At least the pay was good and the dental plan decent.

"You'll get used to them," Coulson told him, but by the look on his face he couldn't tell if that was supposed to be a comfort or a condolence.

The launch went smoothly, and within a few minutes Ulysses began following Titan, cutting a swath through the ocean water towards where the Kaiju's signal was coming from.

"Last one," Bruce muttered to himself as Yaga was loaded up for deployment.

"Good luck, Bruce," Clint called. "Not that you'll need it. You should come to our room tonight. Nat and I will show you how to celebrate like a proper Russian."

"Vodka," Natasha told him in a sultry voice, her accent not as prominent as he'd imagined. "Lots of vodka."

"I might just take you up on it," Bruce laughed quietly, before he dropped the Conn-Pod and they were all business again.

When Yaga was deployed Fury clapped him on the shoulder. "Good job, Banner. I can tell you're going to do well here."

Bruce went to thank him, but Fury was already across the room, looking at a map of the ocean and discussing tactics with Colonel Hill. Until the Jaegers reached the Kaiju it was just a matter of waiting, really. A short lull before the oncoming storm, which meant Bruce was free to look at the footage coming in from the helicopters that escorted the Jaegers out and served as their eyes in the sky during a battle. He couldn't help but whistle in appreciation at what he saw. The Jaegers had always been impressive while standing still, even in the bits and pieces he'd seen when they'd developed the nuclear reactor core, but moving they were a work of art. Clean lines, and sharp edges, an ode to what humanity ingenuity could accomplish when they put aside their differences and worked together.

"They're beautiful," Phil said, watching the footage. "The mark threes all are, in their own way. Nothing like the mark ones. They were ugly as hell," he said with the ghost of a smile; remembering. "Yaga's been prettied up, but you can still see the ugly under the paint if you look close enough. Mark ones got the job done, but they weren't made for public relations like the threes are."

Bruce turned in his seat to look up at the man. "You worked with the PPDC back then?"

"I was a pilot," he said, with a hint of pride colouring his tone. "Pulled from the old Rangers. Fury and I were in the same company- best friends and Drift compatible."

That'd been how the first generation of pilots was selected, pulled from the rank and file and run through every test imaginable. There were still horror stories of those first few months floating around. Stories about soldiers seizing mid-Drift and dragging their co-pilots down with them until they were both comatose. Stories about brain hemorrhages and permanent, sometimes, degenerative, damage. Ten had survived to actually see deployment out of the eighty originally selected. It'd been a mess. But no one talked about that. No one wanted to know the cost of hope nowadays. Not when it was such a hot commodity. So there was a row out in Arlington for the twelve unsung heroes who'd died, and similar rows in the cemeteries of France, Australia, Sudan, and other states around the world. _Sacrifice _was the cost of hope.

An alarm sounded, signaling that the Jaegers were less than a kilometer away from the Kaiju. Bruce adjusted his headset, taking a deep breath that was hidden beneath the blaring of the alarm. One of the helicopters had flown ahead of the Jaegers to scout, and the footage it was getting was unreal. Only a little under a kilometer from shore, a creature that looked like something out of Dante was bursting out from the depths. Its outer shell was reminiscent of a turtle, but any sort of familiarity stopped there. Its mouth was lined with row upon row of teeth and a large horn protruded from its forehead. It was still heading towards land, either not seeing the oncoming Jaegers, or not caring.

Even that far out, with something that large, waves would be crashing over the boardwalk of the San Francisco Bay. Bruce wondered how many children would be sucked out to sea. Wondered if it was all just a matter of time until they all joined them.

Clint howled over the comm, Barnes returning the call in equal measure.

"Gonna' kill this Kaiju bastard!"

"Not if we kill it first, Barton!"

Coulson was still standing on his left side, but when Bruce glanced over at him his eyes closed, and he was listening to the sound of his husband's voice. He looked pale, but resigned, his shoulders slumped.

"Big man over here thinks he can one up us, Nat."

"Barnes is going to eat his words," Natasha growled back.

"Stop grandstanding, it's useless," Tony laughed, his barely there accent sounding thicker over the comm. "Pepper and I will be taking this one out."

"Settle down," Rogers' voice called, sounding fond if nothing else.

"Rangers," Fury started, using one of the mics towards the back of the room. "I don't give a rat's ass who takes that thing down as long as it gets done."

"You heard the man," Pepper said, rallying the troops. "Let's get this over with."

"Listen to the scary lady," Tony chimed in.

"Bucky and I are last line, as always," Steve said, taking charge. "Titan, Yaga, you're up."

With Yaga's swords and Titan's plasma guns, Bruce supposed it was logical for them to be put on the offensive, but wasn't sure how effective they'd be against the outer shell. He glanced back at Fury, trying to gauge his opinion, but the Marshall was blank faced, his shoulders and spine straight with military precision. It was the look of a man giving a final send off. Saying goodbye. Colonel Hill looked much the same by Fury's side, but Coulson just looked tired.

"Do you think he's going to die today?" Bruce asked before he could help himself. He winced as soon as the words were out of his mouth, Coulson staring him down with a flat look.

"I think," he started grimly as his gaze went to the holoscreen that was projecting Clint's vitals. "That he came home the last time, and the time before that. That he'll probably come home today. But that eventually he _won't_."

He said it with a heavy sense of conviction. As if Clint's death was a foregone conclusion and he'd already accepted and moved passed it.

"Most pilots only sortie ten times, and that's optimistic. Clint's gone out eleven. It's partly due to skill, natural talent, and of course, Natasha," he said with a hint of a grin on his otherwise gaunt face. "But it's also luck. There are smaller gaps between events now- more powerful Kaiju coming through. Eventually the Jaegers' potential will plateau and we'll be fighting a losing battle. You know it's true."

Bruce nodded reluctantly. The damage was getting worse, the death toll increasing, and the cost of hope may have been sacrifice, but there were those who attached a price tag as well. Soon hope would be financially feasible underground bunkers in the 'safe' zones. Holes in the ground for the rich to hide in and the poor to die on top of.

"The tides are turning, but it's the Rangers' job to struggle until the end," Coulson continued. "To go down fighting and show the world and the leaders that this is the right thing to do. That it's better to go down kicking and screaming with some iota of real hope, than to die complacently. The people, they watch them go on the news, on those late night shows, and they think that the Rangers are heroes. But they're not," Phil said, looking haunted as he stared ahead to something Bruce couldn't see and something told him that he didn't want to.

"They're martyrs. We're all martyrs."

* * *

_"You were my first choice. All the other Mark three pilots are dead."_


End file.
